Heir Apparent
by iiiionly
Summary: Written for the 2012 Teitho challenge: First Meetings. Thorongil, charged with an errand of mercy by Mithrandir, ventures into Mirkwood without invitation.


_Translations: Adar – Father_

_Ataryina – my father_

_Le hannon – Thank you_

_Mae govannen - Welcome _

_Heir Apparent _

"I hope you are returning with dry clothing and not just an apology, Eärishel, else you may turn right around and go home again. _Adar_ will be furious if I appear before this newest horse-breaker he has schemed to tame me with, in wet clothing."

The elf sitting cross-legged on the grassy knoll overlooking the river bank wore nothing but a skein of long, dripping hair, his fingers flashing as he expertly wove the side braids elven archers habitually wore. The blond head dipped as the hands moved fluidly to join the two braids into one, incorporating more of the wet hair into a thick, golden tail that would hang to the middle of his back.

Legolas pushed off the grass as he finished the task, turning as he rose. If he was surprised to find a human behind him, it did not show, nor did modesty assert itself with any alacrity.

"You do not appear to be my graceless cousin with dry clothing," the elf prince stated, crossing his arms over a powerful, if slender, chest. He eyed the human with an air of disdain. "And I suppose that appearing in wet clothing before you is likely better than no clothing in your estimation." With a sigh, he bent to collect his leggings.

"No need to get dressed on my account, Your Highness." The human began pushing at the elk horn buttons of his own tunic as he purposefully put his feet in motion. "I am here for the same purpose apparently. I do not wish to present myself before you _adar_ in my travel filth. However, let us be straight on this one thing: I am come to Mirkwood out of curiosity; I was not summoned by your father to be yet another torturer. Why does he believe you need taming?" As he spoke, the man shed his own clothing, trailing tunic, shirt and finally breeches behind him as he made for the bluff in the buff. "It is deep enough to dive?"

"Aye," Legolas responded belatedly. The man was already over the ledge; momentarily, a splash sounded below.

Bemused, the prince wandered to the edge and glanced down just as the dark head resurfaced. The human looked up at the same time, flashing a bright grin. "If it will not ruin all the work you just put into your hair, come back in and we will scheme together how to thwart whatever it is your _adar_ has planned for you. I know the ways of fathers all too well," he called up, playfully splashing at the water.

"_Le hannon_, but I think not, though you are a more pleasant deceiver than the last."

The dark visage gave a mock grimace. "Why do you name me deceiver when you do not even know me?"

"I know your kind; my father has introduced me to several of your sort. But it will not work, no matter what he has told you." Curious, especially as he sensed no guile in this individual - and he was particularly sensitive to deceit given his father's recent treachery, this last time saddling him with a new tutor who had kept him pouring over ancient books and scrolls all hours of the day and night - Legolas tossed aside his leggings and sat down with his feet dangling over the shelf of land.

"He has told me nothing," the human argued good-naturedly. "I have not even met him, though I have heard much of the fabled halls of Thranduil's rock-carved palace. I hear it rivals Doriath in magnificence. Is it true?"

"I am no braggart, but I have not seen the like in any other place. Though," the elf prince admitted candidly, "I am not much traveled."

"No? Why not?"

Legolas sighed. It was a closely held wish, for he knew well any request would be summarily dismissed with a negative response. He had far too many duties here at home to be gallivanting around the world. Or at least that had been the reply the one time he had ventured to broach the subject.

He recognized, though, that his father had at least heard his plea, for he had since been included in a number of trips to Rhûn, from whence his father filled his wine cellars, and once to Harad where the Mirkwood elves traded for exotic spices.

"Duties here," he said now, recalling himself from the small cerebral side trip. "Who are you if you are not one of my father's torturers?"

"I am called Thorongil, lately come from Rohan where I served His Majesty, King Thengel. I am traveling awhile before taking up a new post in Gondor. You should come with me; that would certainly frustrate your father's plans, if it is frustration you are after."

Legolas laughed, though there was a tinge of both regret and confusion in the merry peal, for he did not know what to make of this strange, half-taunting, half cajoling stranger.

"Alas, I am Legolas of the Woodland Realm, in service presently to His Majesty, King Thranduil," he returned, matching the human's rather mocking tone.

"Yes, so I assumed. But surely, as a prince you are entitled to a measure of freedom."

Legolas was not sure which part of _his_ response had prompted the bit about assuming. The stranger had addressed him with proper formality without the slightest hesitation, had he only assumed Legolas was a prince? Or had he assumed from Legolas' statements, that he was in service to the house whose name he bore? Whatever the man had _assumed_, there was no such thing as freedom in his life – at least not as he defined it – and Legolas sighed again.

"Nay. I have tasted freedom, but it is not likely to have any part in my future."

The position of heir apparent to an immortal king was something lacking in terms of exciting possibilities. Not that he wished his father ill by any means. Just, sometimes he wished he had been born something other than an immortal prince – odd feelings for an elf, he had been told.

"Legolas? Who are you talking too? Whose clothes are these?" Eärishel, soft-footed for once, spoke from behind Legolas' shoulder as he gathered up the discarded clothing, both wet and dry.

Legolas, who neither needed nor desired a servant, snatched up his own wet clothes. "Leave be," he ordered irritably. "Did you bring me dry things?"

"Aye." Eärishel handed over a neatly folded tunic and leggings. "But who were you talking to?"

"Thorongil he says his name is, lately come from Rohan, traveling a bit before going to his next post in Gondor. Are you a sell sword then?" Legolas called over the side, as he rose and stepped back from the edge in order to dress.

"One can make a decent living at it," Thorongil called back, neither confirming nor denying the appellation. "Where do you get out of here?"

"You certainly pick up the strangest sycophants," Eärishel muttered, fastidiously holding the quiver and bow he had retrieved from the edge of the wood out at arm's length while his cousin dressed.

Legolas ignored him. "Downstream, look for the cutout in the bank." He slung the quiver over his shoulder and palmed the bow. "You may go, Eärishel, I am relatively certain I can find my own way back to the palace from here."

"As you wish, Your Highness, and my apologies again for the accident that caused you to fall into the river."

Legolas narrowed his eyes. "We will discuss that _accident _at some later point, be assured. For now, you may report to my father that you have accomplished your mission."

Fisting a hand to his heart, Eärishel bowed, the small self-satisfied smile he allowed himself, not quite hidden. "You know how your suspicions wound me, my Prince. I am only your humble servant; I would never intrigue with your father against you."

"Be gone!" Legolas waved off the elder elf's wholly unconvincing subservience.

Eärishel backed away, still bowing over his knees. "As you wish," he repeated, finally turning to rise and trot away.

"Who was that?" the mortal asked, having clambered up the step path from the river in record time. He collected his shirt from the tidied pile of clothing left on the ground and dried himself with it, dressing quickly.

"My father's sneaking spy."

"No – truly? I have heard stories, but surely your father is not so despotic as to set spies on his own son?"

"I assure you, he is. You are truly not in his employ?"

"My sword is for sale for a short time, but beyond that, I do not believe I should like to work for your father. I could have no confidence in a man who does not trust his own son."

"Ahh," Legolas put up a hand, "I did not say he does not trust me, though I admit we do have something of a different perspective on trustworthiness. Do you come to the palace then?"

"If I would be welcome."

"I must be honest; if you are not summoned by my father, he may not be receptive to your presence. Much of his reputation is well-earned and he does not suffer the presence of mortals often."

The stranger shrugged amiably. "Well, then we shall see. But you avoided my question, why does he think you require breaking?"

Legolas settled his bow over his shoulder and led the way across the knoll and through a stretch of high meadow grass. "I did not say breaking precisely; there is a difference between taming and breaking. At least, I do not believe he wishes to break my spirit, merely turn into me a more compliant son. It worries him that perhaps I am a changeling."

"Changeling? How so? Did your mother cuckold him?"

"What?"

The Man raised his eyebrows with a suggestive grin. "Perhaps you are not the king's son."

Legolas laughed again. "Nay, I am not that kind of cuckoo. It is just that I am not content to remain at home as little more than a tailor's dummy." He glanced back over his shoulder with a mercurial scowl. "And I do not know why I am telling you this; I do not even know you."

Thorongil met the perceptive gaze with raised eyebrows. "Do you not? Yet I feel as if I know you well."

"Perhaps," the elf mused, bright eyes twinkling, "the familiarity is fostered by the lack of formality in our first meeting. I do not often grant audiences dressed only in my skin." He whistled as they reached the edge of the woods and a large, white wolf came bounding to gambol about their knees like a puppy, flinging water all over them as it shook off the evidence of its recent swim.

Thorongil tensed, ever so slightly, and Legolas called the creature to heel. It sat, pink tongue lolling as it yawned hugely, then licked its chops.

"He is not intimidated by you, Aiollda, he is merely appreciating that fine set of fangs you are showing off. Stop preening."

The ruff settled at once and the wolf became a large white companion, rising to shake his huge head again before leaning against the elf's thigh.

"Where did _that_ come from? That is no domestic animal."

"It is not our practice to domesticate animals, they are free to come and go as they please."

Thorongil looked skeptical.

"You do not believe me?"

"In Rohan, the horses are part of the families, they serve by their own choice, but there is a difference between a horse and a wild wolf, mellon nîn."

"You will see," Legolas promised, unperturbed, and changed the subject. "Few who are merely curious are willing to venture the forests to reach my father's abode. Fewer still make it this far. You are something of a curiosity yourself, Thorongil."

"The horse-sized spiders were a bit off putting, I admit, but I am rarely put off enough to deny my curiosity."

"Horse-sized?" They have grown somewhat since last I encountered a nest."

The forest they entered was alive and whispering above their heads, though here, near to the underground fortress of the king Mirkwood, the darkness was held in abeyance. Sunlight filtered through branches of beech and ash, walnut, oak and elm growing cheek by jowl with yew and hawthorn, all supporting an understory of evergreens, their deciduous accumulation fertilizing the forest floor.

The path appeared well used and came out upon the side of a cliff that dropped down a steep path fit only for mountain goats - or elves.

"They were at least the size of that wolf, mellon nin." Thorongil kept his eyes on his feet as he followed the elf down the winding pathway, wondering if this was some kind of test. The prince had not slowed one bit to accommodate a mortal's agility. "I would not like to meet _any_ of them in the dark."

"No one does, they are the bane of our existence. Have a care for the wargs as well if you are out alone again."

"With or without their Orc riders?"

"Our patrols do their best to destroy any remaining riderless wargs after a skirmish, but they cannot always give chase when some run during a fight. Nor have we ever been able to track down their breeding grounds. They move with the forage and are very cagey."

"I cannot compare with the best elven trackers, but I have some skill," Thorongil offered, "perhaps I may proffer your king my services in that regard?"

"Do not offer lightly, those beasts are something fierce, they can snap a man in two with one clamp of their jaws. It is not a wholesome death."

"Aye, I have witnessed their savagery first hand. I know their strength."

If it was a test, then he had excelled, for Thronogil was on the elf's heels as they negotiated the last few yards of the incline and headed toward a footbridge spanning a deep declivity. It led, he discovered, to one of many back doors into the palace.

This particular door led through the kitchens and he paced behind the prince through a series of fragrant chambers that set his mouth watering and reminded him he had not eaten in several hours.

They progressed through a warren of interconnecting, sumptuously appointed corridors and up and down so many staircases, he eventually lost count. He had often wished he had been born in an earlier age and seen with his own eyes, the halls and palaces of the great lords of old, pictured in many of the ancient drawings framed in his father's study and the fragile scrolls preserved pressed between sheets of glass.

Thorongil saw now that nothing had been exaggerated in those ancient records. Birds flew alongside, twisting and turning as though they too, negotiated the many branching halls and passage ways, while over head, squirrels scampered through densely forested tree branches glinting with an occasional star peeping star. It was not until the scenery changed that Thorongil realized the carvings had been a depiction of Cuiviénen. He wondered as they passed through a passage where an entire carved and realistically painted woodland realm cavorted nearby a stream running the length of one ingress, who among the Avari appeared in the prince's pedigree. Deer poised for flight looked over their shoulders, a raccoon washed off his evening meal in the stream, while on the other side of the narrow brook, a panther debated the merits of raccoon for dinner. Further along, a mother and two bear dripped honey from the pieces of comb they held between frozen paws, bees buzzing around their heads.

They traversed a corridor carved in the appearance of a tunnel through the sea, where flat-winged water beasts hovered over beds of waving plants, among which were scattered huge shells, some clamped tightly shut, while others lay open as if abandoned by their inhabitants, and schools of glistening fish glittered in the perpetual twilight of the lamp-lit hallways.

He was just beginning to regret not having left a trail of some sort when the corridor they were navigating opened unexpectedly into a vast, soaring chamber.

The ceiling, far above their heads, was a filigree of intertwining tree branches that dipped and swayed to an unseen breeze – at least to the untutored eye. Thorongil realized later it was merely a skillfully crafted illusion rendered so as to make it appear the carven trees were alive. The leaves, he was told when he asked, seated the illusion in reality; they were paper thin shavings of jade and malachite, emerald and peridot, wrought by the Dwarves of Erebor whose craftsmanship had soared to new heights at the delving of Thranduil's palace.

Around the outer walls of the cavernous room, reliefs of great mallorn tree trunks rose up to the ceiling as if they supported the entire structure. Craning his neck, Thorongil observed long balconies running down both sides of the room, created to appear as though they were flets constructed among the tree tops.

At one end of the chamber, a dais rose out of the living rock, the shallow steps leading up to it covered in raised figures no bigger than the stretch of his hand from thumb to little finger. He would have liked to investigate further, for he suspected they told a story, but Legolas was already halfway across the chamber and now was not the time to indulge this particular inquisitiveness. He noticed that the throne appeared to be all of a piece, the sloping sides deliberately crudely carved to convey a sense of solidity and solidarity with the natural world from which it arose. The whole room proclaimed loudly, even in silence, the power of the king who ruled here.

It should have been dark, for there was only one lamp to light the vastness, and Thorongil was certain they were far underground, and then he realized the rock was veined throughout with mithril. Perhaps Thranduil had bartered with the dwarves, allowing them the delving of the mithril they could have mined from this room alone as payment for their services.

A door set into one of the mallorn trunks opened silently at their approach and shut behind them without Legolas ever touching it.

"That was impressive," Thorongil murmured, searching over his shoulder for some mechanism and finding none.

"It is an invention of my father's, a system he is quite proud of. There are many such places in the palace. That was the formal throne room, though it is used thus only when foreign dignitaries appear, which is rare. Or my father deems it appropriate to put on a show for some important Elven contingent – which is even rarer. As I said, few folk come to Mirkwood of their own accord.

Mostly the hall is used for celebrations and at such times it is handy for the servers to have doors that do not require bodily parts to open them."

"Interesting," Thorongil replied. "I would love to see how it works."

"That kind of curiosity will undoubtedly gratify my sire. He has a high appreciation for all things mechanical."

"Where are we going?"

"To my father, of course. He already knows you are here, the forest will have informed him of your presence, but he will require a formal introduction and will want to know your purpose in coming, since you arrive uninvited." Legolas glanced sidelong at his interesting companion. "He mentioned a visitor this morning, that is why I thought you must be here at his bidding. I suggest you manufacture some excuse other than curiosity; curiosity, I am given to understand, it not a justifiable cause."

The tartness of that last statement bore the taint of blunted anger. Thorongil noted that the elf rolled his shoulders as if he shook off an invisible foe, and tucked away the knowledge to examine later.

This latest hallway was obviously much used. Quick glances into recessed doors revealed many multi-purposed rooms, some with airily carved furniture adorning the walls and a central open area thickly carpeted; others with groupings of deep, upholstered arm chairs and couches set around central fireplaces, obviously conducive to several conversations being carried on at once.

These reminded him of the Hall of Fire, educing a sharp pang of homesickness. Perhaps he would still have time to make that trip if he accomplished his purpose here in a timely manner.

Legolas stopped abruptly and rapped on a closed door once, before lifting the latch and entering.

"_Adar_, I beg your pardon for interrupting, but I have found the visitor you spoke of this morning."

Thorongil, who had followed Legolas into the office at his beckoning command, stopped short at the edge of a sea of carpet on which floated a massive desk.

"My Lord." He bowed deeply in obeisance and waited, with well-schooled patience, for permission to rise. Beside him, Legolas had done the same. Without turning his head, he winked at the elf, causing a grin to blossom.

Thranduil, with studied intent, did not immediately raise his head, and when he did finally, a pang of misgiving smote his heart. Here was trouble; more trouble even than his son managed to contrive. Who knew what they might unleash together?

"So you are Mithrandir's protégé." Thranduil rose, waving a commanding hand that neither could see. "Oh, get up, there's not a subservient bone in your body from what I hear. Nor yours, either," he addressed his son as the pair straightened like a tandem team, "as I well know from first hand experience."

"Well?" the Elven king demanded as they faced him.

"Well what, sir?" Legolas spoke first, his calculatedly respectful tone belaying just a hint of impertinence.

"I have met the wizard, it is true, but I would not go so far as to style myself his apprentice, My Lord," Thorongil deflected quickly, judging the tension to a nicety.

A smile played briefly across the finely sculpted features so alike to his son's. No denying kinship there; the blond manes drawn back in warrior's braids and clipped behind the tapered ears, the cut of the jaw, the high cheekbones, even the eyes were the same deep forest green. They could have brothers for all that age had marked the king, though the sire's eyes were ancient pools of knowledge, where the son's were as yet untainted with the weariness that Thorongil had come to recognize as the mark of Ages come and gone.

"What brings you to Mirkwood?" Thranduil left the two standing on the edge of the carpet and strolled around to lean against the front of the desk.

The differences were more evident in frame; the king was taller than his son, whose heredity might have only been comprised of half from his mother, but that half dominated, for Legolas was of slighter build than his father, being lean and sinewy where Thranduil was broad of shoulder and solid in girth.

The king crossed his arms over his chest and raised an eyebrow inquiringly.

Thorongil, who in the moment, could think of nothing more than his stated purpose to Legolas, offered it again, though with some slight embellishment. "I am presently between positions, Your Majesty, with time on my hands and a penchant for wandering. I was, however, unaware I had wandered into your domain until I met the first of many spiders. Having battled those with some success, I was emboldened to continue on, as I have heard many stories of your fabled halls. Since I had come so far already, it seemed an opportunity to be seized."

During this charming speech, for Thorongil had delivered it with consummate skill, Thranduil had cupped an elbow in his left hand and raised his right to his chin.

His son was attempting to look bored with the proceedings, but an air of suppressed anticipation glittered around the bright, untarnished aurora. Here was trouble indeed. He should have known Mithrandir would find a way to blunt his weapons, sooner rather than later. Thranduil sighed inwardly, though not a muscle moved on his face.

Apparently the wizard had grown tired of waiting for permission to make this introduction. He had suggested it on numerous occasions, attempting to sweeten the deal by offering up the mortal's supposed sobriety and equanimity as steadying influences to counter his own rather feral child's wilder impulses.

It was, he supposed, time to loosen the reins. As much as he would have liked too, he could not keep that aura untarnished forever. Inevitably, Mithrandir had provided the catalyst to push him into making the decisions he had avoided for the last century.

"I will withhold judgment for the moment, on whether or not it is a pleasure to meet you, but any friend of the old conjurer may find _temporary_ refuge here."

The wizard, Thranduil knew, was an astute judge of character and while he would not take this silent rebuke of Mithrandir's lying down, he would allow the tool enough rope to either succeed, or hang himself.

"Show our guest to suitable quarters," he instructed his son.

Their guest understood quite well the inflected, though unspoken, '_which would be in the stables if I had my druthers_'.

Thorongil raised a fisted hand to his heart in elven fashion and bowed again, the posture precisely calculated to respond in kind, '_perhaps I would rather sleep in the stables than share a roof with you, you stubborn old miser'_.

Thorongil sat cross-legged on the top of the bluff overlooking the river, his fingers absentmindedly breaking pieces off a small twig and throwing them into the water far below. He watched the tiny bits swirl away, seeing them only with his eyes, for his mind was busily assessing his chances of success.

His observations over the last three days boded well for achievement.

Despite that, he sighed and tossed the last bit of stick over the edge, then leaned back on his hands. The legerdemain he practiced with his identity and purpose for being here did not sit well with him. He was by nature, a solitary man, more given to soberness than ebullience, though he had, surprisingly, found a measure of enjoyment in the playful banter he'd engaged in with the prince.

He had not lied outright, for he sensed that to do so would cause instant withdrawal on the part of the Mirkwood elf. The wizard had remarked, rather acerbically, that Legolas reminded him of Estel in his late teens; primed and ready for a future, but with no foreseeable future available to him, and no opportunity to expend all the pent up energy of youth. It amused Thorongil no end that the wizard regarded him as the elder of the two of them.

Neither was he happy about keeping the fact that – in a round about way – he _was _here at Thranduil's bidding, as Gandalf had sent him for the express purpose of contriving a diplomatic way to bring about a détente between Mirkwood's King and the heir to a throne the prince would never occupy, yet was unquestionably being groomed for.

Normally Thorongil enjoyed conundrums, but he was finding this maze a bit difficult to thread considering how invested he was in the outcome, and that after only three short days. He _did_ like the prince immensely, as Gandalf had predicted, and he knew he walked a fine line, for if Legolas discovered his purpose here before he had had a chance to bring about any resolution, there would be no accomplishing anything, least of all a fostering of the budding friendship.

Thorongil sighed again. In his usual insightful way, Gandalf had cannily sketched the broad strokes of the relationship between father and son, leaving Thorongil to deduce the finer points on his own. He had on his hands a pair of stubborn elves whose surface tension often concealed the deep current of affection and mutual respect. On Legolas' side, there was a need to spread his wings and fly, while on Thranduil's part, there was an equally urgent need to safeguard this last precious gift from the wife already lost to him.

Somewhere in this labyrinth there had to be a suitable compromise. Thorongil was hoping he'd caught a glimpse of it out of the tail of his eye this morning, when Legolas had ridden out on patrol. He had been invited along, but declined with a jest about wishing to avoid any further encounters with spiders.

Legolas' prompt and sincerely motivated offer to stay behind and keep him company had been declined as well and not just because the former Rohirrim captain needed time to think. From what he had gathered, it appeared the prince had only recently been added to the patrol roster. By any elven standard, he should have been in command of a patrol of his own long ago, though it had been inordinately clear that even the small freedom of being allowed to _join_ the Watch, gave the young elf an outlet, at least, for some of his pent-up feelings. It was for that reason Thorongil had refused the prince's offer to stay behind.

It had taken no more than a day to realize Legolas had been schooled in every aspect of daily life in the Elven kingdom. And the knowledge had come not from listening to the prince expound his aptitude for turning a hand to any task. It had come from watching him stop to help at nearly every turn of their path: the farrier, taking the pick to remove stones from a horse's hoof while the old elf has steadied the animal; the wheelwright to wrestle, with precision and a degree of authority unseen in any apprentice, into submission a recalcitrant pin; the armorer, who had needed a hand at the forge. They had visited the infirmary, where a friend of Legolas' was recuperating from an orc-inflicted wound and it had been clear, in the deference of the healers, that not only was the youthful prince's cheerful demeanor a welcome distraction, his considered questions about the care of his friend had been insightful, clearly indicating a broad understanding of the healing arts as well.

Thus had Thorongil deduced much of the broad base of experiential knowledge his new friend possessed, and understood this had been the father's way of shielding the heir as long as possible.

Thorongil had watched Legolas make careful preparations yestereve, for this morning's patrol; fletching a dozen more arrows in addition to the full quiver standing sentinel by the door, scouting out extra bow strings to add to his pack and double checking that every article in that pack was necessary, before settling to waxing the bow itself.

He slid his elbows out from under him and dropped back on the grass. As he'd whiled away the hours of Legolas' absence, one thing had become clear. Time was of the essence; a strange contradiction of terms in this elven stronghold. Thranduil must be brought to see the rebellion striving to fight its way free of the prince's purposeful restraint without weighting the delicate balance father and son had achieved.

The question remained – how best to approach this battle so victory was not tainted by the defeat of one or the other. He lay gazing up at the clouds for quite a while longer, contemplating his next move, before rising with a determined set to his jaw. He brushed off his clothing and headed for the path through the woods.

* * *

In his study, Thranduil paced the length of the spacious room, pausing every now and then to stare into the low fire. No matter the season, fires burned as a matter of routine, year round, down here in the innards of the palace. As much for light and cheer, as warmth.

He kicked at the crumbling logs, venting a bit of his annoyance. He had examined the problem from every conceivable angle and did not like any of the avenues open to him.

A knock on the door heralded a visitor. Since his staff knew to knock and enter with their disturbances, and there was only one visitor in his realm at the moment, he bade a curt, "Come," and moved to sprawl in the substantial chair behind the purposely intimidating desk. To appear agitated would be to cede advantage to his adversary.

"I was told that I am at liberty to importune you at will, My Lord." Aragorn waited on the threshold for acknowledgment. He schooled his features to impassivity and waited out the invasive, assessing elven stare as well, calling on all the reserves he had learned under the inscrutable gaze of his own father.

Apparently he passed muster, for the king stood abruptly and motioned to the seating area before the fireplace.

"Sit."

Steeling himself, Thorongil acknowledged the directive as though it were a gilded invitation rather than a command more suited to a pet, moving to sit where the king indicated.

"What do you want?" As the senior negotiator, and Lord of the Realm, it was Thranduil's prerogative to open the game.

"I believe I want the same thing you do, my lord," Thorongil stated, making his opening move with smooth diplomacy.

"Are you old enough to drink?" Thranduil countered without a blink. He would not give ground easily before the determined onslaught he read in the young mortal's eyes.

"I am; however, I must decline, despite what I've heard about Dorwinion wine. I wish to keep a clear head, for I have also heard you drive a hard bargain, My Lord."

Thranduil took a steadying sip of the well-aged alcohol before seating himself opposite Mithrandir's "_steadying influence"_. "You are here to bargain? Very well, state your ante."

He was committed now and Thorongil did not hesitate. "Legolas' freedom."

A golden eyebrow rose fractionally. "You mistake if you think we are after the same thing then. And be done with the _My Lording_, I detest it."

"As you will, sir." Thorongil wished he had accepted the wine, if only to have something to do with his hands. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, clasping the useless digits and then unclasping them when he realized he was leaving white marks between his knuckles. "I beg to differ, sir. I believe you have your son's best interest at heart as much as … " Here he did hesitate, unsure whose appellation should be appended in that spot. Recalling that he was no longer _just_ Gandalf's tool, but a friend intervening on behalf of a friend, he stated with conviction, "As I."

"You have just met him, what arrogance makes you think you know better than I where his best interests lie?" Thranduil countered as if reading Thorongil's thoughts. Which would not be unusual; his foster father possessed the talent as well.

"I suspect you are aware that I am here at Mithrandir's behest."

The young man made it a statement rather than a question and Thranduil responded accordingly – with no hint of what he was aware of. He maintained his silence, waiting for the mortal who styled himself Thorongil of Rohan to continue.

It worked.

Thorongil squirmed, if only inwardly. He was well used to these leading silences, but had never managed to out wait an elf. "Perhaps due to my upbringing, I am not accustomed to befriending individuals quickly, nor do I give my trust on short acquaintance, but there was an immediate kinship between your son and I. He has many qualities I admire and many more that are ready to blossom if you would but loosen the reins a little." Mortals, he knew from both Gandalf and Legolas, did not rate highly in the king's estimation. If Thranduil knew who he was, gambling the weight of his heritage would certainly tip the scales one or the other.

Mithrandir had been closed as an oyster guarding a forming pearl when it came to this protégé. Again, Thranduil made no move to confirm or deny, just gestured for Thorongil to continue. In the back of his mind, though, he began piecing together what he did know about this youthful mortal, collating the bits and pieces with the occasional odd rumor that had worked its way to his ears as well.

"I do not often speak in superlatives, either, but I have thoroughly enjoyed the company of your son these past few days. And it is of my own observation that I say to you, you do him a disservice keeping him in this holding pattern where he is neither youth nor adult." Thorongil abandoned his carefully worked out plan. Diplomacy was overrated; sometimes you had to go with your gut. "You are a king and may command as you wish, but you are also a citizen of this world _and_ a father." Since his own youth had been put behind him, he had become a leader of men and learned a thing or two on his own. "You have both a duty and a responsibility to nurture that which is given into your care, not stifle it. And you _will_ stifle it eventually if you keep on this path."

Thorongil sat back stiffly. "I beg your pardon if I have overstepped my boundaries, sir."

"Do not offer me pap thinking to turn my wrath at this stage of the game." Thranduil lifted his wine goblet in salute. "What you say has merit, I will grant you that. I am aware that Legolas is chafing at the bit, but you see this only from the perspective of a foreshortened life. You will live what? Seventy, perhaps eighty years? A hundred if your ancestry boasts some connection to those who buried much of Arda beneath the waters of a cataclysmic flood. Half your span of years is gone already is it not?"

Aragorn acknowledged the hit with a canting of his head, but countered immediately. "And Legolas has whatever Ages are left to this world. Do you derive some pleasure from torturing him with duties and responsibilities you well know he will never have the opportunity to perform in the same capacity as you?"

"Mirkwood is no enchanted valley," Thranduil snapped back, "danger lurks betwixt and between every bit of vegetation in this wood – as _you_ well know. My son could be king tomorrow should I fall in any of the daily battles we encounter." He rose to refill his glass, adding far more causally, "And your own impassioned arguments were far superior to spouting Mithrandir's useless drivel."

Thorongil blinked. He had been away from his own family for too long; he had forgotten how Erestor could change sides in an argument in the blink of an eye, so they were suddenly on the same side of a heated debate.

"Then you agree that you have a responsibility to allow Legolas the latitude to learn from whatever mistakes he might make if you allow him more control?"

"Whatever you may think of me, I am not an imbecile. However, just because I agree does not mean I am ready to implement this metamorphosis." Thranduil sighed heavily and downed the second glass of wine in one swallow. "Because I see that you do have my son's best interests at heart, and you are still far closer to his age than I, say your piece."

Perhaps he was losing his edge, but there was no amusement in toying with the mortal. Especially as he merely put into words what had weighed heavily on the king's heart for more than century. He knew what he must do, but the potential cost had made acting upon it too devastating to contemplate.

Thorongil made a concerted effort to maintain a deliberately calm demeanor. "Do you even know how capable he is? He can wield a branch as a weapon better than most wield a sword and his skill with a bow is the best I've ever seen, and I grew up learning bowmanship from Glorfindel." He was on his feet without realizing it. "He is too good to be wasted in the ranks, swaddled and protected by warriors inferior to him. Give him his own patrol! I believe you will find he will step up and be a capable patrol leader on his own in very short order."

Even standing, with the king at some distance across the room, the elf still towered over him. "Give him leave to negotiate whatever business of the realm comes up next; if your Dorwinion costs a bit more, so be it. Send him to Harad to bargain for your spices. Give him leave to be your envoy to Laketown! He has learned from the best, give him the experience to set that knowledge just as you have had him educated in the everyday life of your realm."

Thorongil abandoned composure, allowing all the passion of his own youth to influence his plea. "Above all, my lord, let him out of Mirkwood. Send him as messenger to Lothlórien and Rivendell, allow him the latitude to know and be known amongst his kindred. There is a whole wide world he knows only from books and maps. He has lived his entire life beneath a dense canopy of trees; has he ever seen _Anor_ or _Ithil_? Elbereth's constellation? Eärendil's?" He knew very well, he was reaching, but sometimes hyperbole made a statement on its own.

"That is absurd. Of course he has seen the sun and moon." Though not often, Thranduil acknowledged, if only to himself. Legolas' fascination with the desert, on that one trip he had allowed to Harad, and the foreignness of the wide open night vistas whispered in the back of his mind. It had not occurred to him that such ordinary, everyday occurrences were mostly missing from his son's life. He had the memory of those things from his own childhood when the forests had been young, the canopy less dense, and had never noticed their lack in his life now. They had learned to adapt over the centuries here in Mirkwood.

"You speak eloquently." It was difficult to see the youngster before him as anything more than a pup, but he had a decent head on his shoulders and a surprisingly authoritative delivery. Mithrandir had chosen his tool well, though Thranduil would never admit it. "I suppose I have to consider —"

The door opened without a preemptory knock. "Sire, the patrol is returned. The prince has been grievously injured, he is covered in blood."

It was Eärishel, the spy.

The energy in the room soured between one heartbeat and the next. Thranduil growled an oath under his breath and shot across the room as an arrow from full draw, Thorongil on his heels.

They met the prince striding toward them, covered in gore it was true, but moving freely, apparently unhampered by injury.

"Are you harmed?" Thranduil demanded, grabbing his son by the shoulders to give him a thorough visual once over.

"Nay, but I am filthy, _Adar_!"

Thorongil swallowed a snort of laughter. To an elf, filth was nearly equivalent to loss of life.

"_Adar_?" Legolas repeated, when his father did not step back.

Thranduil clasped Legolas in a strong embrace, but drew back to look him over again. "You are certain you are unharmed?"

"Aye!" Legolas, embarrassed both by the attention and the excessive emotion, pulled away. "I am sorry you did not join us, Thorongil, it was a most excellent battle!"

"Mmmm," Thorongil murmured a noncommittal assent. He was long past the age where he found battle an exciting prospect.

"I will join you shortly, Father. In your study?"

Thranduil agreed, reluctantly releasing the youngster. "Bring your friend, we have much to discuss."

"_Adar_, do not let this-" Legolas waved a hand down the front of him, "prejudice your decisions. I was not injured and Faihdor said I acquitted myself well."

That was high praise from Faihdor, Thranduil knew, though Legolas, though no fault of his own, had no standard against which to measure himself. With a forced smile, the king clapped his son on the shoulder in as congratulatory manner as he could muster. "Then I am sure he will tell me so himself. You are likely famished, I will have cook send up a repast." He watched as Legolas flashed a smile of gratitude, twisted away and invited the human along with a slight cock of his head. The pair moved off at a rapid pace, Legolas most likely sharing a blow by blow account of the battle just past.

Ahhhhh the exhilaration of the very young finding the wind and flying high. That perfect elven recall conjured, with clarity, the memory of his own first experience with the emotion. Thranduil rarely felt the weight of the Ages that had unfolded in his lifetime, but he did so now as he turned away from the retreating duo and went to find Faihdor.

"It appears you parted company with your horse, Legolas. If you wish to impress your father with your prowess with a bow, it will not do to come back from patrol looking as though you were involved in hand-to-hand combat."

"I am sure you are correct; however, we were."

Aragorn snagged the elf's arm, swinging him around. "What happened?" he demanded.

"The orcs grow ever bolder. We met a scouting party at sun high and were engaged before Faihdor could order me to retreat. It happened so fast there was only time to react, no time to worry or think about what to do." Legolas tugged at his captured arm. "Come, the smell of orc blood is repulsive."

Aragorn let go and fell in step again. "Is this the first battle in which you've engaged?"

"No, I have hunted spiders occasionally, though they are more cunning than brainless orcs, but this is the first real test of my skills. My father will have to allow regular participation in patrols now, Faihdor will insist."

"Then you must have acquitted yourself very well indeed."

Legolas only smiled.

The inner bathing chamber in his quarters was already prepared when they reached the suite of rooms. Legolas excused himself quickly, leaving Thorongil to wander the chamber.

And with every step, Thorongil found himself growing more uncomfortable with his deception.

He glanced over his shoulder as the door was nosed open and the wolf peered around. It sniffed, apparently discerned that Legolas was in residence, and trotted over to curl up on the rug in front of the fireplace. It yawned once, hugely, eyed Thorongil lazily, then wrapped its long muzzle in its tail and, from all appearances, went to sleep.

Thorongil decided he could see everything in the room from the spot he was standing. Their previous peregrinations had not brought them here, and he was pleasantly surprised to find the suite of chambers within his purview conveyed an air of comfortable informality, unlike the grandeur of the rest of the palace.

This had been a child's room once and still held remnants of the youth Legolas had been. In an inglenook beside the fireplace, a well-loved rocking horse guarded childhood memories, alongside a rocking chair that reminded Aragorn of the swan boats he had seen in Lothlórien. A child-sized bow and quiver, complete with miniature arrows, hung above the fireplace.

But the child had grown and the adult was also revealed in the chamber's décor.

Legolas had brought his beloved forest indoors with him; live plants and miniature trees were grouped in corners and flanked the fireplace beneath Fëanorian lamps.

Beneath his feet, thick jewel-toned carpets in rich autumn hues covered the stone floor. A tapestry hung behind the sleeping couch, depicting a pair of youngish looking elves entwined in one another's arms, and since one was clearly Thranduil, the other, Thorongil thought, must be Legolas' mother. He would have liked to study it more closely, but the moment he swayed as if his feet would leave the square of rug he inhabited, the wolf's eyes opened and the tongue lolled with speculative invitation. To the left, an entire wall was decorated with bird's nests; in clefts carved into the wall, perched on outstretched tree limbs that grew _from_ the wall, or cradled in niches carved to appear as shallow holes in the earth, each with its own clutch of eggs.

Entranced, Thorongil forgot the wolf and paid no mind when it raised its head and growled softly. He lifted out one of the eggs with care, to find they were perfectly carved and painted replicas of the real thing. He wondered if they were Legolas' work. The artistry required to produce such detailed accuracy, from size and weight to the fragility of their appearance, showed a creative expertise in sharp contrast to the athletic, rough and tumble exterior Legolas had revealed over the last three days.

A collection of feathers glittered with touches of iridescence beneath another set of Fëanorian lamps, while on a shelf below, a pair of ivory-handled knives held pride of place.

Aragorn picked one up, carefully running a finger along the whetted edge of the blade. This was no decorative piece; it was a beautifully balanced throwing knife, that, judging by the wear on the hilt, had seen a lot of action.

"Those belonged to my uncle - my mother's brother." Legolas reappeared half dressed and vigorously toweling his hair. "He was among my mother's attendants."

"Do you use them?"

"I have begun to learn their secrets. But I am in no way proficient with them yet," Legolas replied, tossing the towel on top of an unusually beautiful desk, carved in the aspect of a bird in flight. "Given time, I will be," he said matter-of-factly, as he pulled a clean shirt over his head. He drew a comb quickly through his hair and began to braid nimbly.

"How are you with a sword?" Thorongil inquired, sifting his fingers through a pile of feathers lying atop several unfletched arrow shafts. If Legolas considered himself merely proficient with knives and blade, his teachers had clearly been stinting on their praise.

Here was a definitive warrior, perhaps untested as yet, but noticeably well prepared and on the cusp of making his mark.

"Passably efficient, no more. There is no finesse in a sword; it is a hacking weapon I have no appreciation for."

"I will grant you that, though my sword has come in handy a time or two. Do you know Mithrandir?" He did not ask idly, though Thorongil knew the answer already.

"Of course." The change of subject brought the prince's head around inquisitively. "He has been a good friend." And confidante, though Legolas refrained from saying so. "My father named you protégée to the wizard, are you?"

"I answered truly. I am nothing in the nature of an apprentice, but he has occasionally requested my aid in some of his …" Thorongil cleared his throat, "schemes."

Legolas signed for the wolf to follow and headed for the door, fighting to keep a straight face. He would certainly agree that the old man was a schemer.

Thorongil beat him to it and put a hand on the latch. "I have a confession to make." It was suddenly imperative that he clear up the misconceptions he had purposely allowed to stand.

A twinkle appeared in the elf's green eyes. "There is not the need, _mellon nîn_. No one wanders into Mirkwood without purpose and if you were not bidden here by my father, then only one other would dare to send such an emissary."

Thorongil tilted his head. "You are not angry?"

"Should I be?"

"I will be honest, friend. I would be," Thorongil stated flatly. An intellectual understanding of why his identity had been withheld from him for eighteen years of his life had never quite overcome the deep resentment.

Even knowing he had been impeccably trained for the heritage that awaited only his willingness to take it up, did not make up for the fact that for ten years he had single-mindedly pursued one dream. And heard it go up in smoke with the words, '_You are the son of Arathorn, Chieftain of the Dúnedain; heir of Isildur and Elendil. It is your destiny to mount the empty throne of Gondor and take up the sword reforged in the fight against the Enemy.'_

In his – admittedly limited at that point – experience, men with a destiny laid upon them rarely lived long enough to reap the rewards of all their hard work. An early death had not featured in any of his youthful dreams

Thranduil's reasons for keeping his son on such a tight rein were his own, but Thorongil suspected Gandalf had ulterior motives in sending him to champion the young elf's cause. They were both to be tools in the arsenal the wizard was patiently and stealthily assembling, with an eye toward that day when the One Ring surfaced again, and called forth its master, rendering him the most vulnerable he was ever likely to be.

Thorongil could not say he had embraced his destiny, but he _had_ learned to accept it. From what he had witnessed here, the Mirkwood Prince would likely be much more willing to be used than he had ever been.

"My name is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Chieftain of the remnant left of those who sailed before Númenor drowned."

Legolas eyed him interestedly. Aragorn saw that quick mind running through the genealogies of his house.

"Which is to say, I may refer to you as _Your Highness_ as well."

He recoiled slightly. "No!"

"How do you style yourself then?"

"I do not. It is a closely guarded secret that I bear the title Chieftain of the Dúnedain. For the moment I am Thorongil, late of His Majesty, King Thengel's, guard."

"Does my father know this?"

"I do not know. I had assumed Mithrandir would have told him, but perhaps he has not. However, if that is the case, it is likely I told him this afternoon."

"This afternoon?"

Aragorn removed his hand from the door latch and lifted it to scratch at his head. "There is more I need to tell you."

"Perhaps we should sit down?"

"I will keep it short. Mithrandir sent me to see if I could … end the torture."

Legolas threw back his head and laughed heartily. "We have spoken of this often, he and I," he said, offering his own confession of sorts. "He has long been aware of my father's resistance and the rebellion I have kept buried in my heart. It became something of a game between my father and me, but I tired of it long ago. I have stayed the course this long without throwing over the traces only because Mithrandir has appeared many times at just the right hour or moment to calm the storms between us. Nay, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, I am not angry. In this I am extremely grateful for Mithrandir's scheming. Come! Let us harvest the seeds you have sown."

Aragorn put his hand out once more. "Legolas—"

"There is more?" the elf inquired in inimitable style.

"No. I just … I regret that our first meeting has been tainted with this deceit. I hope you will not hold it against me."

"Let us make a bargain. If you accomplish what you came to do, we will disregard all that has gone before. If you do not, I will never let you live it down."

Aragorn considered for a moment and smiled his acceptance. "It is a fair bargain. Let us hope we both succeed."

Legolas opened the door, motioning his new friend through ahead of him and they made their winding way through the palace corridors to the king's study, the wolf padding alongside.

* * *

"_Ataryina_! I have brought a guest!" The proclamation rang out with gladness as the pair dismounted in the courtyard amid a flurry of activity. Elves were boiling out of every exit from the great house, surrounding them in a noisy, colorful throng, with shouted greetings on every side accompanied by much back pounding.

Legolas backed against his horse, bewildered by the uninhibited display of affection. It reminded him of the mêlée'_s _back home and did not at all match up with his impression of the much vaunted Noldorian dignity.

Aragorn ducked under his horse's neck to grab Legolas and draw him forward. "The first ambassador from Mirkwood in an Age!"

Every eye turned toward the blond elf and a momentary hush fell over the crowd.

Legolas sidled back again, and stumbled over his own feet when he bumped into someone who had come up behind him. Face scarlet, he whirled to find himself impaled by a sharp gaze from a pair of deep-set, mithril colored eyes. And then the eyes resolved into a face featuring a prominent brow, mobile mouth and lines bracketing a smile stretching lips wide in genuine welcome.

"Sweet Elbereth! Can it be? Legolas! This is … entirely unexpected!" The Mirkwood prince found himself engulfed in a rib-cracking embrace. "Does your father know you are here?" A frown briefly marred the ageless features as Lord Elrond drew back, setting both hands on the prince's shoulders.

Being a close acquaintance of the wizard's, he knew something of the situation in Mirkwood.

Legolas, his heart immeasurably gladdened by the irrefutable warmth of his welcome, grinned. "Aye, my lord, though likely the reality will have sunk in by the time I return home and I will be relegated once more to the safety of the tedious chores of sovereignty."

"Then we must make your time here memorable. _Mae govannen_, Legolas of Mirkwood, welcome to Imladris!"

"_Le hannon_," Legolas bowed and touched his fisted hand to his heart. "It is good to be here, my lord."

"Estel!" Elrond turned to his son and drew him into an equally warm embrace while a confusing number of similar looking, dark-haired elves moved to greet Legolas. "You must have acquired a mithril tongue since last you were home. How did you accomplish this?"

"It was Gandalf and Legolas' doing, _Atar_, not mine. Perhaps my appearance advanced the schedule, but Thranduil had already made up his mind that the time had come to allow Legolas to broaden his horizons. It became a matter of settling the details."

"Regardless, you have accomplished something none other among us has been able to in an Age! A visitor from Mirkwood, and the prince no less! You have done well, my son."

"I thank you, but I am not being modest, Father. In truth, I believe it was Legolas' maturity in restraining the burning desire to rebel that most effected the change in his father. I am sure you will comprehend how difficult it has been for him to loosen these reins."

Elrond affectionately ruffled the dark head and gave his son another one-armed hug as he gathered up Legolas as well and swept the pair onto the porch of the Last Homely House.

"Aye, I will be most diplomatic when I write to tell Thranduil of our joy in welcoming you, Legolas."

He turned with his arms around the duet and faced the still milling throng in the court yard. "Prepare the Hall of Fire; this night we celebrate!"

_This has been a word of transformative fan fiction. All characters and settings belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien; the story itself is the intellectual property of the author. No copyright infringement has been perpetrated for financial gain. _


End file.
